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To See the Wood Between Trees - Poetry Group

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Look between bare straws of winter tree shafts,
light shoves fingers combing the floor for leaves.
The living always ask questions of the dead,
that they refuse to answer from their bed.
It is torment, I know as one who grieves,
imagine they whisper in restless draughts.
Those who have gone, if they live on, are mute,
and all our hope is open to dispute.
Could it be they wait for us to learn craft,
the spell of this, the art of that which weaves
confusion in the mind the weight of lead,
that lets us not perceive the heaven wed.
No this is, Death is Death, all else deceives,
and those who think to wrest the shroud are daft.

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